One woman's journey from living room to law school with one husband and three kids in tow.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Diamond Fever

18 guys with the singular goal of winning. If each does his part, then 9 will leave victorious. That's baseball. And, it is a game I hated until I met my husband.

My earliest memories of baseball are unpleasant snapshots of people crammed into a hot, sticky room, angling for position in front of a console tv, eventually dozing off to the soothing sounds of equally lethargic crowds and dulcet toned announcers. Atlanta was the only baseball team we ever watched. The only team anyone in our small hamlet rooted for aside from the Tide. Endless Sundays and Wednesdays were gobbled up by baseball.

Then I met my husband. A man crazy about all sports who can recite stats with ease and whose knowledge is bigger than a baseball. A pair of tickets to a middle-of-the-week game and I was officially hooked on the baseball. When our family blossomed from two to five, our long days spent at Coors Field, drinking beer and cheering for the home team abruptly ended; the price of ticket prices was just too high for five people.

But with the Rox in the mix for an NL playoff spot, our love of the game prevailed over our budget. Last night at Coors Field was the most fun we've ever had at the game. When Tulo hit a Grand Slam it was amazing and electrifying and just perfect. And we were there. Even if the Rockies don't make the playoffs, we were there as a family - cheering, high-fiving and celebrating the home team.

In the end, I think - nay, hope - that my children's memories of baseball will not be like mine - laden with memories of humid afternoons crowded in front of the tv - but instead will be infused with the overwhelming and crushing love that forty-three thousand fans have for their home team.*